


I'm not that good, but I'm not that bad

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:19:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An odd little au in which Murphy takes care of a family of frogs and Bellamy rides a motorcycle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. holy man tiptoed

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up that later chapters of this fic will touch lightly on rape/ptsd. Nothing graphic, it just comes up in passing. Later though, this chapter is just frogs and bad coffee.

It’s been four months since it happened, and he isn't having the most wildly exciting time of his life.

He can vaguely hear the sound of Emori singing in the shower and he grumbles in frustration. Rolling over and wrapping the blankets tighter around himself, he falls back into a dreamless sleep.

 

"Murphy," there’s a shove at his shoulder.

"Murphy!" tugging at the sheets he's cocooned himself in.

He glares at Emori over his sea of blankets and throw pillows. She smells like summer and citrus, her hazel eyes bright and almost honey coloured in the early morning sunshine.                 

"How are you today?" her head is tilted inquisitively and Murphy frowns at the softness in her tone.

Emori was never soft. She always told it like it was and didn't quite grasp the concept of appropriate tact in everyday conversation. It’s too early and Murphy’s grouchy, so he leaves it be.

"I’m peachy keen. Now let me sleep," he mumbles, burying his head under his pillow. She squeezes his shoulder to say goodbye.

 

**

 

Minutes or hours later he wakes up and pulls one of Emori’s bathrobes around himself as he clambers out of bed. The kitchen floor is icy against the soles of his feet and he mentally curses himself for not grabbing a pair of socks on his way out of the bedroom. He’s startled to see someone else standing at the coffee pot, but pushes down the strange panic that bubbles up in the pit of his stomach and clears his throat.

The man whirls around with a sheepish look on his face. He’s tall with broad shoulders, and his dark skin is littered with freckles. Murphy glances down and sees heavy black boots, and raises his eyebrows when he sees a shiny grey helmet under his arms.

“You ride a motorbike?”

The mysterious biker frowns and shifts awkwardly, setting the helmet down gently on the scuffed kitchen counter. He looks like he’s blushing.

“Uh. Yeah. It’s Murphy right?” he’s encouraged at Murphy’s nod, and continues with a friendly smile. “I’m Bellamy- Emori’s friend from work. She asked me to fix the shower head; did she tell you I was coming over today?”

“Nope. Well- she probably did, but I just forgot or wasn’t listening,” he shrugs half-heartedly. “Could you pour me a cup of coffee?”

Bellamy looks a little nonplussed but he nods, wide eyed, inky curls bobbing along with the movement. “Nice outfit by the way,” he says as steaming coffee trickles into a blindingly orange mug.

Murphy takes in his own faded Blur t-shirt and plaid boxers, and Emori’s pink fluffy bathrobe. He scratches the back of his neck.

“How do you take your coffee?”

Murphy answers by butting in beside him and prying the cup from his hands. He dumps four spoonfuls of sugar in and a generous amount of milk, sloshing some over the side in the process.

“Oh wow,” Bellamy says, biting back a laugh. “You’re one of those people.”

Murphy peers into Bellamy’s cup of muddy brown liquid and wrinkles his nose. “And you’re one of _those_ people.”

 

Bellamy smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “I better get started on the shower. Enjoy your coffee.”

 

**

 

Murphy ambles around the apartment after downing his coffee and saying good morning to his frogs. Four identical eyes blink up at him. Four sets of shiny webbed fingers press up against the glass expectantly. Murphy sighs. “You’re all like tiny slimy babies.”

He flips open the lid of their terrarium and feeds them distractedly, listening to Bellamy’s humming as he fixes the shower head. After separating two frogs in a fight over a cricket he hears a crash in the bathroom and a muffled cry of, “Murphy! Can you come he-“

Bellamy’s shout breaks off into a shriek and Murphy snaps the lid shut and runs to the bathroom, pink bathrobe streaming behind him like a fluffy superhero cape.

He bursts through the door and is amused to see Bellamy sitting in the bathtub, powder blue shower curtain draped over his head and clutching the shower head in his arms.

“You look the Virgin Mary in a very low budget, last minute elementary school nativity,” he points at the shower head. “I think you’re holding baby Jesus upside down.”

Bellamy’s eyes dart up to meet Murphy’s. “There’s a frog in here. In the _tub._ Did you know that frogs inhabit your bathroom?” His voice is a little shaky.

Murphy hums and approaches the bathtub. He reaches in and scoops the wandering frog up, stroking the back of its head with his thumb. “This is Ringo,” he announces.

“Ringo this is Bellamy, the man you just scared half to death. I hope you’re happy with yourself,” Murphy plops him into the front pocket of his bathrobe, and Ringo peers up at him with a blank, watery sort of look that only a frog can give. Murphy lifts the shower curtain off Bellamy’s head and helps him up. His hands are callused and warm; his grip firm and a little sweaty.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles. “I got startled and I kinda just-“ he flails his arms around a little, miming falling. Murphy grins.

“It’s okay. It’s my fault; I should’ve made sure all the guys were present for breakfast time,” he narrows his eyes at Ringo.

“All the guys?” Bellamy echoes, amusement creeping into his tone. Murphy nods, motioning for him to follow as he makes his way to the frog room. It’s really a utility closet, and still has a washing machine, but Murphy’s working on converting it into a fully functional frog room. Well. It’s on his list of things to do.

 

Bellamy laughs as he enters- a deep, pleasant sound that fills the whole room. “I like the wallpaper.” He runs his fingers across the flat life-size trees that cover the back wall of the tiny room.

“Thanks. Picked it myself,” Murphy beams, “The guy in the shop said it would make them feel at home,” he lets Ringo hop off his hand and join his brothers in their leafy home.

“So, Ringo huh? That’s a cool name.”

“I guess. This is George,” Murphy points to a frog sitting in the water dish. “That’s John lying on the log, and Paul’s in the hut- I can see his foot.”

Bellamy stares at him incredulously. “You’re really into alternative British bands aren’t you?”

Murphy frowns, smoothing down the front of his t-shirt. “Blur is good. I don’t really listen to The Beetles though.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline.

“Emori named them. She thought it was really funny you know, The Beetles,” the ‘The Frogs’, that kind of thing-“

“Oh my god, that’s terrible. Only Emori would find that funny.”

“Right?” Murphy toys with the hem of Emori’s bathrobe. “Anyway, how’s the shower fixing coming along?”

Bellamy’s expression darkens. “Not so good. The fr- uh, Ringo set me back a little. I have to leave soon for my shift, so it looks like I’m gonna have to come back tomorrow.” He makes a face. “Sorry to disturb your frog minding again.”

Murphy smiles and Bellamy smiles back at him. Murphy decides that he likes the colour of Bellamy’s eyes. They’re a murky kind of dark brown; not unlike his coffee, but infinitely warmer and a lot more inviting.

“I think that’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Murphy would really like specific clothes for no reason and just hang on to them, and the clothes are nice enough on their own but together they make truly horrific outfits and Murphy loves it. That boy lives for the drama and controversy over him wearing ugly Hawaiian shirts in November or orange sweatpants and pool slides together.


	2. sound of magic music

The first thing Murphy hears when he wakes up is muffled arguing from the frog room. He brushes his teeth while half asleep and pads towards the voices he now recognises as Emori and Bellamy. He sees them hunched over the terrarium and he lingers in the threshold.

“Bell I just named them, I didn’t raise ‘em! I don’t know what they like to eat in the morning,” Emori says crossly, and even though she isn’t facing him Murphy knows she’s rolling her eyes.

“Well, if you were a frog, what would you want for breakfast more; crickets or worms?” Bellamy holds up two containers and Emori makes a retching noise.

“Just leave it to Murph’, the guys are his thing anyway.”

“I’d like to talk to him sans the motley crew,” Bellamy says, gesturing towards the frogs; who all peer at him from their perches.

Murphy strides into the room. “I was going to talk to you after I fed them you know,” he says, taking the containers from Bellamy and attempting to stay as dignified as a man can while wearing a zebra print snuggie and star wars pyjama bottoms. “I’m offended that you think all I have to bring to a conversation is my family of amphibians.” 

Emori scoffs and tosses a long neat braid over her shoulder. “You’re so over dramatic.”

She’s wearing a soft grey turtleneck sweater and dark jeans with a long black coat over her shoulders; almost touching the floor. Her hair is pulled back into two braids today and it makes her look younger, emphasized by Bellamy towering beside her in a worn leather jacket and his biker boots.

“Murphy! Love the ensemble,” Bellamy says, and smiles at him; the same crinkly, genuine smile from yesterday.

Murphy smiles sleepily back at him as Emori kisses him on the cheek and tells him to eat something later on. “Aye aye cap’n. Shape the young minds of tomorrow!” he calls after her, satisfied when he hears a huff of laughter above the clatter of her shoes before the front door shuts.

Murphy tips some crickets into the frog gang’s terrarium.

Bellamy quirks an eyebrow. “Breakfast is crickets. Noted.”

 

**

 

Murphy follows Bellamy to the bathroom to survey the damage from yesterday. “You’re lucky Raven across the hall is nice and lets us use her shower when she’s at work,” he says, as Bellamy’s teetering on the edge of the bathtub and re-attaching the shower curtain. Bellamy murmurs something about Ringo being lucky he didn’t get his slimy ass squashed under his boot but Murphy pretends not to hear the slander against his frog children.

“You want some coffee and toast?” he offers instead of a scintillating remark about Bellamy’s big feet.

“Yeah. Do you have marmalade?” Bellamy says, edging his way across the bathtub as he slides the small metal hoops across the rail with a soft clinking sound, the only other noise the shuffle of his socked feet.

Several minutes later, Murphy calls Bellamy into the kitchen where he’s greeted with two huge cups of very different yet equally terrible coffee and two plates of toast.

 

“This is fine dining at its best,” Bellamy says around a mouthful of charred toast with too much marmalade. “I’m feeling really honoured that you went to all this trouble just for me.”

Murphy makes a face and kicks him under the table. “You know who wouldn’t be this ungrateful about my cooking? The guys,” he waves in the general direction of the frog room.

Bellamy snorts into his coffee. “Yeah, because they eat crickets and worms, and are probably used to the taste of desperation and bad choices.”

Murphy laughs raucously and takes a bite of his own toast, which has roughly two inches of Nutella dumped on top. “So what do you do? Job wise, I mean.”

“Nothin’ special. I’m a janitor, but I’m working on going back to college to study history. Pretty sure I want to teach.”

Murphy looks at him from across the table. He’s hunched over on the chair, wide shoulders bent towards him. The leaves of Emori’s giant dragon tree brush against his curly hair as he speaks, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His black t-shirt is has collected a fair amount of lint and his arms, Murphy is just realising, are especially freckly.

“That’s cool, I hope it all works out for you dude,” he says, and he honestly means it.

 

Bellamy smiles. “Thanks.”

They eat in an easy silence for a while, before Bellamy speaks up again. “I never asked you what you do.”

Murphy keeps his eyes on his coffee cup. “Not much at the moment. I used to work at the zoo, but- not anymore.”

“That, is a very cool job,” Bellamy says. “Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes. I have my frogs so it’s not so bad. I’m thinking of getting a lizard soon. Maybe even some snakes.”

 “You should start your own zoo,” Bellamy muses, rolling his coffee cup between his hands.

“I should.”

 

**

 

Emori returns from work tired, but in a good mood. She finds Murphy curled up on the couch, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a book in his hands.

“Hello. I’m getting a lizard,” he announces as she arrives.

“Hello to you too,” she mumbles, rummaging in her handbag for the scrap of paper with the cute girl she’d met on the train’s phone number on it. “What’re you reading?”

Murphy flips the book around so he can read the cover. “It’s called, ’Scaly and Slimy: the ultimate guide to making life perfect for your amphibians and reptiles’.”

 

“You’re serious about the lizard thing then?” she settles on her end of the couch, head lolling over the edge, feet kicked up over the back.

“Of course,” Murphy says this as if there’s nothing in the world more serious to him than the purchase and wellbeing of his new lizard.

“That’ll be good for the guys,” she says, stifling a yawn. “Speaking of guys, what do you think of Bellamy?”

Murphy looks up from his book, eyes magnified by the reading glasses. He looks a little like a frog to Emori. “He’s,” he pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Nice to be around. I like his company.”

Emori smiles. “He likes your company too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is extremely short but I'm definitely planning on at least two longer chapters in the future, so stay tuned if you'd like. There's lots of dialogue in these first parts but I'm hoping I'll be able to flesh everything out a bit more later on.


	3. funny feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its five am and I'm so tired. So, so tired.

Over the next few days, Bellamy gets the shower head fixed, with lots of “help” from Murphy. (Mostly coming in the form of bad coffee and stories about his frogs.) He _does_ enjoy Murphy’s company, and looks forward to his wit and odd, blunt statements. When the shower head is fixed, Emori finds him other things to repair, like the light in the living room and the leaky tap in the kitchen. Bellamy doesn’t mind.

 

**

 

It’s late and the store is empty, which is one of the reasons Murphy likes to shop in the middle of the night. He hasn’t slept much since it happened; and was hesitant to stay up in the apartment and disturb Emori’s sleep, seeing as she had to wake up at six and deal with kindergarteners all day. He’d been coming to the 7-Eleven for a while, and thought it was kind of stupid that they were literally named ‘seven to eleven’ but were open all night. He’d voiced his opinions about this to Emori over dinner once and she’d listened; nodding absently, asking him if he was going to stop shopping there. He’d reasoned that the store was close to the apartment and always had Cap’n Crunch, so he didn’t mind the contradictory name enough to stop shopping there; and she’d just shaken her head and smiled at him.

Murphy tugs his hood up and makes his way up and down the food aisles, leaning on the shopping cart occasionally and letting it carry him, feet an inch off the ground, past the bread and cereal. The only sound is the faint hum of the overhead fluorescent lights as they cast a blue glow on the dirty linoleum floor, and the snores of the only checkout on duty. Murphy cranes his neck to glance at the scruffy haired boy slumped over the counter, who’s now drooling on his shirt sleeve. They’ve struck up something of a friendship over the past couple of months, after Murphy dropped a can of tomato soup on his first visit and it rolled its way down two aisles, leaving a trail of sticky red slush in its wake. He’d stumbled up to him and introduced himself as Jasper, despite his nametag bearing the word ‘sper’. (“Washed it by accident my first week on the job. Turns out, this baby _isn’t_ washing machine compatible,” Jasper had said with a slow grin, gesturing to the badge grandly.)

The tomato soup incident and the subsequent cleaning up had been a bonding experience; and ever since then they’d had an agreement that Murphy could stay in the shop as long as he wanted as long as he woke Jasper up when a customer arrived. Murphy likes Jasper a lot, and has an appreciation of his rumbly voice and dirty sense of humour. He was studying chemistry at the local community college, and spoke to Murphy fondly of smoky explosions and experiments gone wrong. He’d brought his homework with him on his shift once and spent an hour teaching Murphy how to solve equations. Murphy valued this new skill greatly and took pride in the knowledge that one day if faced with a chemical equation; he’d know what to do.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the tinkle of the bell at the shop’s door. Wheeling his way to Jasper manically as he’d done so many times before, he pokes him in the arm. “Customer at two o’clock,” he hisses as Jasper stirs sleepily, one cheek pink where it’d been resting on his arm. Murphy hastily departs to the chip aisle, hoping to remain unseen by the fellow late night shopper. He slinks around by the weird healthy chips, debating whether or not it would be too obvious if he stuck his head over the aisle. He hadn’t seen anyone in the shop this late in weeks, and he was curious to see what kind of person was also a night time 7-Eleven goer.

To his surprise, he sees the customer round the corner and stop at the far end of the aisle, looking down at his phone intently. He takes in the broad shoulders clad in a faded olive green overall jumpsuit, matching cap atop a mop of dark curls and heavy black boots.

“Be still my beating heart!” he announces loudly, forearms resting on the cart’s handlebar. “Is this Bellamy Blake I see, standing by the Doritos?” He’d found out Bellamy’s second name on his last visit, and had delighted in using it whenever possible in their conversations.

Bellamy turns to face Murphy from the other end of the aisle. “Why if it isn’t my frog prince!” he says, just as loud as Murphy; laying a hand over his heart dramatically with a wide grin on his freckled face.

Murphy dumps a bag of baked kale chips into the cart for Emori and rolls on over to Bellamy. “Your uniform is very cool,” he says brightly, laughing when Bellamy makes a face at him. “What, you don’t like it?”

“I look tragic,” Bellamy says solemnly, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “You however,” he gestures too Murphy with both hands, “-are really killing the convenience store fashion scene.”

Murphy smooths out the front of his geometric print turtleneck sweater in a pleased and embarrassed way, which Bellamy has noticed he does whenever he compliments his clothes. The sweater is so big that it comes halfway down to his knees. “Thank you. I try my best,” Murphy says, smile coming through in his voice as he toys with the hem of his sweater. He’s also wearing a pair of extremely ripped jeans and, to Bellamy’s mixed amusement and horror, black socks and bright orange pool slides. He wonders what kind of store would sell those. Probably one without a conscience. Commenting on Murphy’s style had started out as a joke to fill in an awkward silence, but Bellamy has come to genuinely appreciate the way the he dresses.

“So,” he says, cornflower blue eyes darting up to meet Bellamy’s. “What’re you doing here so late?”

“I just finished work and really felt like Doritos, you know?” he shrugs and plucks two off the shelf, holding the shiny bags in his hands loosely, one red and one blue. “What about you? What’s the story, one am glory?” He laughs a little at his own joke.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Murphy says curtly, scuffing an orange foot against the floor.

Bellamy nods and doesn’t push the subject, instead examining the contents of Murphy’s somewhat empty cart. “Sour Patch Kids, Cap’n Crunch and kale chips are an interesting mix,” he muses, dishevelled curls poking out from the curved brim of his cap.

Murphy runs a hand through his own hair, which is getting a little long. “The healthy stuff is for Emori. I just do the dishes and buy the food, she pays the bills and wears the ‘responsible adult’ pants.”

Bellamy grins. “Do the guys pull their weight around the apartment too?”

“Oh yeah,” Murphy says flippantly, leaning forward against the cart again. “They take out the trash and help me clean the bathroom. It’s very Disney.”

 

They take their items to the checkout; where Jasper sits, bleary eyed with his face cupped in his hands. He bags their stuff sleepily, mumbling to Murphy about his girlfriend Maya’s new kitten.

“He’s soft and grey and he gets hair all over my stuff but I don’t really mind y’know? Like he’s _that_ cute, he could kill my kid and I still wouldn’t mind. Don’t have a kid though, so maybe that’s why I wouldn’t mind.” A bottle of water slips from his grasp as he hands it over, and Bellamy catches it just in time. “Oh- thanks man.”

 

Cool air hits Murphy’s face as he walks out of the store, holding his bag of groceries to his chest with both hands. Bellamy emerges beside him and points to the velvety night sky. “Full moon tonight,” he says simply, and Murphy feels a surge of happiness at the wonder in his voice. He hops off the store’s raised step and towards his motorbike, which Murphy notices a minute too late.

“You uh- rode the bike here?” Murphy swallows nervously. It looms on the sidewalk, (Can a bike loom?) its shiny black surface reflecting the dull light of the silvery moon overhead.

“Yeah,” Bellamy rubs the back of his neck absentmindedly. “You want a ride home?” he asks, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

Murphy shifts under his gaze, feeling apprehensive. “Uh. It’s only a couple minutes...” he finishes with a shrug, not sure how to end the sentence.

“Exactly. Two minutes, tops. It’s not that scary.” Bellamy shoots him an encouraging smile, and Murphy’s protests die in his throat as he takes the bag from him and hands over the grey helmet.

“Fine,” Murphy sighs. “But I’m not holding onto you like they do in the movies.”

Bellamy just shrugs and shoves the bag and his stuff into the back compartment of the bike. “Suit yourself.”

So Murphy ends up perched precariously on the back of Bellamy’s bike, grumbling about looking like an astronaut in this helmet and asking if Bellamy’s sure that they aren’t going to tip over, because it sure as hell feels like they are. They take off and Murphy yelps, circling his arms around Bellamy’s middle nervously. Bellamy thinks he hears him huff, “Well- this isn’t like they do in the movies alright?” but its lost to the roar of the engine. Darkened building blur past and the sidewalk melts into a haze of purples and blues under the streetlights. He’s pretty sure Murphy scowls the entire time.

 

Emori buzzes them into the building as Murphy apologises profusely, and she says only a little sleepily that she was already up. Bellamy walks Murphy up two flights of stairs and he tells him about the documentary he watched about a giant prehistoric snake. “She’s like, the mother of all snakes Bellamy,” he says conversationally.

Murphy also tells him about the lizard plans. “I’m gonna get a bearded dragon. They’re kind of ugly and sometimes they bite, but I have room in my heart to love them and I feel like that’s enough.”

When they reach the apartment door Emori swings it open grandly, her five foot four frame wrapped in a soft blue blanket and scrunched up socks. “Hey Bellamy!” she grins toothily, “Date at the local mini-mart go well?”

Bellamy blushes from the hollow of his throat to the tips of his ears, while Murphy pushes past her gently and scoffs. “It’s 7-Eleven, you _know_ that.”

“Would you like to come in for some late night pasta Bellamy?” Emori asks warmly, opening the door a little wider. The tart smell of pesto drifts over to him as Murphy sidles into view, spearing green pasta on a purple plastic children’s fork and nodding his head vigorously.

“Sure. Why not?”

Murphy whoops with a mouth full of pasta and chants, “pasta night, pasta night,” repeatedly as he grabs three bowls and sets them around the table.

Bellamy discovers that while having a tasteful set of Ikea tableware, all of Emori’s cutlery is small and plastic, in a plethora of colours. The kitchen drawer looks like a box of crayons.

“They’re cheaper,” Emori says offhandedly, legs crossed elegantly in batman pyjama pants.

Murphy stifles a laugh. “She only has ‘em because they had too many at the kindergarten, and she insisted that we use them because they make meal-times more fun.”

Emori doesn’t have much to say to this, and just narrows her eyes in Murphy’s direction.

Bellamy enjoys the food and the affectionate insults Murphy and Emori hurl at each other, and stays to help them with the dishes. “Do you guys want to go hiking with me and my friends this weekend?” He asks as he dries a bowl, hip brushing against Murphy’s as he washes the dishes with a flushed, happy face.

“I’m not much of a hiker but it sounds like fun,” he says, smoothing back a strand of hair that had fallen over his eye. “I’m there.”

Emori makes a face as she takes the bowl from Bellamy to put it in the cupboard. “I wish I could but I have a teacher training thing.”

Murphy hums sympathetically. “We’ll remember you as we clink our fancy drinks by the sunset on a kick ass hiking mountain,” he says, raising a soapy wine glass in the air to illustrate his point.

Emori sticks her tongue out at him and he returns the gesture, flicking his up and down and bearing a striking resemblance to Ringo trying to catch one of the crickets before it hits the ground. Bellamy finds that he likes Murphy’s frog-like face, shiny and happy in the dim light of the apartment.

 

After Emori says goodnight and disappears down the hallway to her room, Murphy drags Bellamy to the frog room to see the guys in all their nocturnal glory. They spend a few minutes there watching George and Paul wrestle for a spot on the highest artificial branch; the only light from the red lava lamp in the corner as it projects twisting vermillion tinted shadows over the sharp angles of Murphy’s face. They eventually end up back in the living room, where Bellamy helps Murphy set up a small pillow and blanket fortress after he’d flopped onto the squishy leather couch and announced that all the bones in his legs had broken due to tiredness and too much pesto pasta.

“I’ll come get you around five tomorrow,” Bellamy calls as he’s leaving the apartment. Murphy mumbles incoherently from his fortress, only his fluffy hair and a few inches of pale forehead visible over the blankets. Bellamy closes the door as quietly as possible and makes his way down the stairs, unable to keep the grin off his face.


	4. dream to riot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for implications of non-con/rape. (there's nothing graphic, but i want to keep everything as comfortable as possible for you guys. its mentioned at the beginning so if you need to skip it, start reading at the second paragraph: "Murphy wakes up ...")

He’s back here again. The air is heavy and he can’t breathe, and there are hands gripping his wrists hard enough to bruise his skin, bruise his soul. A harsh whisper in his ear- a promise that sounds like a threat, a voice that makes his insides turn to ice. There’s pressure and heat and sweat slicked skin and it’s all so wrong and rough and intrusive, he doesn’t want this, he never wanted this, he wishes it would just stop and -

Murphy wakes up drenched in a cold sweat. The blankets are twisted around the contours of his body, constricting and biting into his skin. He leaps up and takes a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut until silvery shapes fragment and swirl behind his eyelids like illuminated beads in a kaleidoscope, dancing across the darkness.

Pillows tumble from the couch unceremoniously, landing at the same time the blankets slip to the floor and brush his legs, still warm from the heat of his body and feeling eerily like skin and it’s all just too much for him.

He shouts for Emori and doesn't even recognise his own voice as he stumbles to the kitchen, shaky hands finding the edge of the counter and holding on to it, gripping until his knuckles turn white. She’s by his side instantly with a cup of water and the familiar tangle of colourful interlocking plastic. He takes deep gulps from the glass gratefully before thanking her.

  
“The usual?” she asks from the opposite side of the counter. Murphy is grateful for the distance between them, and feels an ache in his chest at her consideration for his discomfort after the dream. He nods, fingers sliding over the bumps and curves of the toy in his hands as he counts each twist he makes and steadies his breathing.

Emori stays at the other side of the table and her presence calms him. Familiar, constant, and good. He reminds himself over and over that she'd never hurt him, and he genuinely does believe it. He feels the knot of fear in his chest uncurl until it becomes tendrils of anxiety, before dissipating into nothing. His breathing returns to normal and the pounding of blood in his ears melts away.

Thirty two turns.

The number is significantly lower than the last time he had to use it, and he sees this as progress, even though each dream is as bad as the last.  
“Sorry about the yelling,” he says, his voice hoarse and just above a whisper.  
Emori shakes her head, “It’s nothing. When you grow up with someone like Otan, shouting becomes the usual method of communication.” Murphy smiles wearily as he remembers the last time he was at Otan’s house, and his loud booming voice and three equally loud kids.

“You still okay to go out with Bellamy later?” her forehead creases in worry and he snorts despite himself.  
“Yeah, I’ll be alright. You’re making it sound like a date.” He says, handing the toy from his therapy sessions back to her. She smiles mischievously, frown gone.  
“Maybe it is,” she laughs at the scandalised look on Murphy’s face. “You never know!”

  
**

Bellamy arrives on time and by ten past five he and Murphy are coasting down the motorway in a large red jeep, which Bellamy says belongs to Lexa, Clarke’s girlfriend. Murphy’s backpack rests on his lap, the corks hanging from his hat swaying near his chin in the breeze from the open roof.

Bellamy scoffs, sliding his eyes back to the stretch of road in front of them. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs fondly.  
“I prefer the term extravagant,” Murphy says, voice wavering on the edge of a laugh. Bellamy drums a tune on the steering wheel with his fingers, the soft patter just loud enough to hear over the low thrum of the engine. “So, do you have any like-” his mouth moves wordlessly for a moment, forming silent vowels and consonants in search of the right word. “uh, you know, social media?”

Murphy's nose crinkles up as he thinks for a moment. “I have an Instagram, but I haven’t updated it in a couple of weeks,” he muses. “Haven’t updated my Facebook either, but I doubt I would've even if I did have my phone. That website died in 2011.”  
Bellamy shoots him a questioning look.  
“Oh- dropped it in the toilet by accident." He says by way of explanation, shrugging his shoulders simply.

  
There’s a huff of surprised laughter. “And you haven't had it back in a couple of weeks?” Bellamy asks incredulously, as if he couldn’t imagine living a day without uploading a picture of his lunch on Instagram or tweeting about the weather.  
“Yep. Emori’s brother is fixing it, but he’s busy most days, and he has kids to take care of, so there’s a bit of a waiting period I have to get through.” Murphy picks at a loose thread at the hem of his shirt, which is blue today and covered in a million tiny cartoon bananas.

  
“Must be tough,” Bellamy says empathetically.  
“Not really. I have my frogs.” The evening sun bounces off the bridge of Murphy’s nose.  
“And your future bearded dragon,” Bellamy reminds him.  
Murphy turns towards him and smiles widely. “Of course.”

Bellamy’s heart lurches and he turns back to the road, attempting to make his voice sound nonchalant. “When you get your phone back we should uh,” he swallows and forces himself to finish the most embarrassing thing he’s ever said. “Exchange numbers. Or something.”  
Murphy nods enthusiastically. “For sure.”  
Bellamy has to restrain himself from fist pumping right there in the jeep.

  
**

They’re walking side by side along a narrow dirt road, framed by towering trees; their gnarled roots threatening to overtake each other, as intricately intwined as figures in a renaissance painting. Leaves crunch underfoot as Murphy hitches his backpack higher up on his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, I like your boots a lot- but isn’t that gonna hurt with all the walking?”

  
Bellamy peers down at his biker boots before turning around and executing a somewhat successful backwards moonwalk. Murphy stops for a moment, his eyes widened in amusement, before shaking his shoulders in time to imaginary music.  
Bellamy laughs. “I'm a little too punk rock for hiking boots.”  
Murphy snorts. "You wish."

They return to walking side by side, as if it were completely normal to break into an impromptu dancing session with no music. Birds chirp lyrically in the distance, their songs muffled by the trees. Murphy pulls the corked hat off his head, accidentally crushing it as he searches his backpack for water.

The sunlight filters through the canopy of trees above them, the air hazy and warm, pollen clinging to the hair on Bellamy's arms and settling in Murphy's hair, chestnut dappled with gold. With the hat off, Bellamy can see that his hair is pulled up in some sort of haphazard bun at the back of his head, and he'd be lying to himself if he said it wasn't ridiculously endearing.

**

Meeting Clarke and Lexa is definitely the high point of Murphy's day.  
Lexa is a tall woman with long curly hair and soft hands. Murphy knows this because she offers to shake his hand. He takes it hesitantly, and she introduces herself with a polite smile and a surprisingly strong grip. Murphy's kind of terrified of her, but he likes the slow, steady way she talks. "I like your hat," she says, and he doesn't doubt that she's a hundred percent serious. "Very practical," is murmured with a nod of approval. He's flattered.

Bellamy howls when he catches up to her, loudly announcing her arrival by shouting and waving his arms. "All hail Lexa, king of bench pressing!" They lapse into a discussion-slash-argument about who can do the most push ups in two minutes, and Murphy turns to a blonde woman behind Bellamy, who grins broadly.

Clarke greets Murphy the way she'd greet an old friend, clapping him on the back and grinning widely. "Your pants look like jorts and sweatpants had a really ugly baby," she says, and the undercurrent of surprise in her voice suggests that its more of an observation than an insult. He likes her instantly.  
Murphy props his right leg up on a nearby rock and gestures grandly to his trousers and all of their faded grey glory like a hand model.  
"You'll see these babies on the catwalk next year. Mark my words."  
Bellamy, who had been talking animatedly to Lexa about protein, laughs uproariously causing Clarke to push her elbow into his ribs and jostle him into a nearby shrub.

Soon Lexa and Bellamy set off with the bags and charge ahead like overexcited kids, Lexa holding a bag under each arm and Bellamy's own duffle bag slung over his wide shoulders as he holds Murphy's backpack high over his head like it's the holy grail.

  
Murphy and Clarke tag along behind them, laughing about Bellamy and Lexa's competitive streaks.  
"Lexa's is a mile long I'm telling you," Clarke says as she swings her arms by her sides. "When we first moved in together I joked with her- joked! an innocent joke," she holds her arms out in a wide, spreading arc to emphasise her point. "I said; race you to the bathroom babe, and she set off like some sort of fucking greyhound and slammed her elbow into the bathroom door."

Her voice is lively and lilting, and she tells the story with the sort of fondness in her eyes that comes with loving someone. "That was also our first trip to the ER together," she muses. "A broken elbow, because she wanted to win a race with the grand prize being the first one to brush your teeth. Fuckin' ridiculous."

Murphy chuckles and drags a thin tree branch along the dirt road, leaving a dark trail in his wake. "In case we get lost," he says, eyebrows knitted together in concentration as he attempts to draw and walk at the same time.

Clarke tilts her head and smiles benevolently at him.

She's fascinated when he tells her about his frogs and insists that he send her photos of them all individually along with their names.  
"Like mugshots?" he asks, tree branch still in hand. "Like frog prison?" Clarke laughs raucously, and they end up discussing the logistics of frog prison, and what kind of crimes would incarcerate a frog in the animal kingdom. Clarke pitches some ideas of what life for a frog would be like if they had governments and presidents.

"I don't know if an amphibian government would work out though. It might end up like an animal farm type situation, you know?" Murphy kicks a rock and it spins in the direction of Bellamy's calf, narrowly missing him as he jumps over a fallen tree trunk like some sort of freckled gazelle. Murphy flicks his eyes away from the shift of Bellamy's back muscles under his shirt to meet Clarke's eyes, glittering blue in the harsh daylight. "I don't think I'd want my guys living in a frog world like that. Too corrupt."

She waves a hand before flipping flaxen hair over a sunkissed shoulder. "To be fair, the animals in that book wanted to overthrow the humans. I'm talkin' a peaceful coexistence between human and frog," Clarke says earnestly, and Murphy feels inexplicably happy.  
"Then yes. That'd be cool."

  
She twirls the tree branch in her hands, having taken over the duty of line drawer, tongue between her teeth as she marks a squiggled C and M into the dirt. She encases it in a star, dark pointed edges framed by overturned soil.  
Murphy peers over her shoulder to admire the strange drawing. "I think you'd be a really great frog president."  
Clarke beams.

**

They get to Lexa's cabin, which bears a shocking likeness to the one featured in the Evil Dead movies. Lexa, apparently a lover of horror movies, has no problem with this. "I'd like to see zombies take me on. I'd shove ten years of Taekwondo right up their undead asses." She raises a fist to the air and Clarke swoons over-dramatically. It doesn't even really make sense but Murphy chuckles anyway because of the determined look on Lexa's aristocratic face.

"I love it when you talk dirty," Clarke says as she bats her eyelashes, draping her arms over Lexa's shoulders. Murphy has quickly learned that Clarke's sense of humour is a mixture of weird and filthy, and shes kind of like every frat boy Murphy's ever met bundled up into five foot four feet of blonde hair and a myriad of smiles that border on a smirk.

Bellamy shoots Murphy a disgusted look and drifts closer to him. "They're going through that 'obsessed with each other' stage in their relationship." He wraps his arms around the duffel bag by his side, holding it up to his chest. Starbursts of freckles constellate along his arms, tiny swirling galaxies of tan and hazel that shift and ripple as Bellamy moves. "They've been going through it for about five years, but still."

Murphy blinks up at him, kind of at a loss for what to say. "That's cute."  
Bellamy rolls his eyes and grabs Murphy's elbow, guiding him into the cabin. He tosses his bag on the floor unceremoniously before throwing Murphy's own bag to him. It smacks him in the chest and falls to the ground with a dull thud. Bellamy exclaims and slaps his hands over his eyes. "Man! Should've warned you."

  
Murphy shrugs. "I don't have the best motor skills." He presses a hand to his heart dramatically. "Cut from little league team too soon for my talent to shine." Murphy laughs. "Nah, I'm just not good with my hands." 

Clarke's voice resonates from behind thick walls made of rich oak. "Grab that bag of marshmallows and the stick things!"  
Muffled rustling is heard as Bellamy smiles dopily at Murphy through his fingers. "Then you're lucky I have good enough hands for the both of us."

  
There's a beat of silence, and Murphy holds his gaze for a little too long before Bellamy's eyes snap to the floor and he brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck. There's a muffled shout of amusement from behind them.

"You mean skewers?" Lexa says, her words mingling with laughter.  
"Yeah! Get those fuckers in the bag!" Clarke chuckles throatily and emerges with one arm clutching water bottles and the other arm circled around Lexa's waist, who's trying to zip up a backpack and shove Clarke off at the same time.

  
Bellamy pushes himself back from the wall and mumbles something that sounds like an apology as he passes Murphy. "Lovebirds! Can we get this show on the road?" His disembodied voice calls from outside, where he's already set off on the trail.

Murphy runs to catch up with him, tugging his hat on as he's hurled into dazzling sunlight. Bellamy smiles awkwardly at him. "Listen, I'm sorry about in there, I didn't mean for it to-"  
"Nothing to be sorry for my guy. I am going to make you do all the lifting and catching though. All those activities that require good hands." Murphy bumps shoulders with him, a smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

  
"Your guy? I'm one of the guys now?"

  
Murphy's smirk blooms into a grin. "Of course. Consider yourself a member of the frog family Mr. Blake."  
Bellamy laughs. "Why thank you, Mr-" he stares at the path ahead of them, which is slowly merging from dirt into rock, small tufts of dewy grass pushing up between crevices, stretching to find sunlight. "Dude, what's your last name?"  
"Murphy."  
"Your name is Murphy _Murphy_?"

"Wh- No? No," Murphy frowns comically as Bellamy squints at him. "Did you think my first name was Murphy?"  
Bellamy's smile is sheepish. "I thought your parents were like, wild artsy folks who named their other kids things like Eggplant or Barrington."  
"My first name is John, Bellamy." Murphy says airily.

  
Bellamy stops abruptly. Murphy can see Clarke and Lexa's figures in the distance. "This whole time," he scrunches his face up, disbelief lining his features. "I've been hanging out with a John?" 

Murphy turns to him. "I am a special snowflake. I refuse to be lumped in with all the other Johns. Do you know another John that has a family of frogs? Or one who lives with an adorable kindergarten teaching lesbian?" 

Bellamy blinks. "I've ... never met anyone like you," and the way he says it makes it sound like a compliment. "John Murphy." His name sounds nice coming from Bellamy. Warm and friendly and soft around the edges. Dripping honey flecked with gold. Murphy decides that he hates his name a lot less when Bellamy says it.

**

The rest of the day passes by hazy and sprawling, the burning sun stretching the minutes into hours, a lifetime spent clambering over dusty rocks and crisp leaves, staring at the watercolour sky melt from blue into shades of pink and purple. Murphy jumps from rock to rock with valour and enthusiasm, swinging on tree branches and insisting that Bellamy give him a piggyback ride every ten minutes.

They come across a narrow stream that runs the length of the woods, filled with fish whose shimmering stomachs glide across the surface of the water. Bellamy and Lexa take it upon themselves to wade into the bubbling, iridescent waters and challenge each other to catch a fish with their bare hands. Murphy announces that it reminds him of a Bear Grylls episode he'd seen once and Bellamy and Lexa loudly chant his name like he's a renowned hero.

"Our idol!" Bellamy says as he swings his arms back and forth through the stream, hands coming up empty as clear water spills through his outstretched fingers. Lexa's beside him, occasionally darting forward to grab at nothing, tendrils of shining dark hair breaking free of her ponytail to frame her face.

Clarke stands on the sidelines, leaves from a low-hanging branch catching in her hair and lifting the golden strands around her head like a halo backlit by the setting sun. "As a vegetarian I oppose this activity, but as a concerned best friend slash girlfriend its my duty to make sure neither of you get hurt."

  
Bellamy stumbles on an overturned stone and is forced by Lexa and Clarke to keep a bright pink bandaid over the cut.  
"Pink's your colour Bell," Murphy says, with a smile so wide it makes his eyes squint up. Bellamy returns the smile and grabs his hand as they make their way across the clumps of moss and wild grass that springs up and scratches at their calves.

They set up a fire in a pit of dark rocks, and Clarke distributes marshmallows and skewers. "Good clean fun, guys!" She declares when she hands them to Bellamy and Murphy. "No poking. Unless its the fun kind."  
Lexa pulls a face. "You're disgusting."

Murphy settles on the rough bark of the fallen tree he and Clarke are perched on as the fire spits and crackles, embers catapulting into the air like tiny shooting stars before fizzling out against the velvety indigo sky. Bellamy smiles at him, smudgy through the haze of the fire. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a dark mess of curls that look suspiciously soft atop his freckly head. Murphy smiles back.

Bellamy tells the story of how Clarke got so drunk at her first art show that she threw up in the corner and tried to pass it off as an exhibitionist piece. "It was so disgusting," he says as Clarke tries to kick at his socked feet. He's too far away so she settles on knocking over one of his battered boots, smiling triumphantly as it falls and a tiny cloud of ashy dirt rises where it lands. "I had to clean it up and everything." Lexa raises her marshmallow in solidarity, apparently familiar with cleaning up after Clarke.

  
"That was a one time thing."  
Lexa's raised eyebrows say it wasn't.

Bellamy moves the skewer back and forth in his hands and the gooey tangle of marshmallow spins, creamy edges bubbling and fading into brown as the flames dance around it.

Murphy laughs. "My old boyfriend was like that. He always got nervous at his photography shows and drank way too much."  
Bellamy's skewer stills. His marshmallow slides off the edge and slops to the ground.

  
"Boyfriend huh?" Clarke tilts her head and smiles at him, the curve of her cheeks glowing in the dim firelight. "I didn't think you batted for the other team, frog boy."

  
Murphy shrugs. "I'm pan. I bat for everyone's team."

  
Lexa chuckles and Clarke nods approvingly. Bellamy's still looking at Murphy, and there's something that Murphy can't quite place in his eyes. The fire plays across Bellamy's angular features, bathing him in flickering shades of blood orange and sheer glistening yellow.

"We're like the LGBT dream team!" Lexa announces.  
Clarke giggles. The bisexual babes," She gestures to Bellamy and herself. "The lesbian legend," a wave towards Lexa, "And our very own pansexual prince!" She points at Murphy before reaching over to rummage through the bag of marshmallows. "Now that's a fuckin' franchise."

**

Murphy bids goodbye to Clarke and Lexa when they arrive back at the cabin in the silvery moonlight, and receives a lighthearted punch on the shoulder from Lexa (which hurts like hell), and a bone crushing hug from Clarke. She grabs his arm and scrawls her and Lexa's numbers across his skin with a purple marker, drawing a tiny frog in the crook of his elbow.

"I'm gonna miss ya, Murph," she says with a bittersweet smile, and he reminds her that it isn't the end of the world and he isn't leaving forever, but he feels an odd tug in his chest as he leaves.

"Y'know, I'd like to meet your friends," Bellamy says as he puts the jeep into reverse, one hand on the seat behind Murphy's head and the other on the steering wheel as the vehicle rumbles across the uneven ground. "I mean, if that's okay. If you want to."  
Murphy toys with the corks on his hat, not feeling up to meeting Bellamy's eyes. "You kind of already have."  
A frown flickers over the other man's face. "Just Emori?"  
Murphy nods. "And the guys."

"Well, you've got three new honorary members of the frog family now dude," Bellamy says, eyes fond as they meet Murphy's.  
They grin at each other under the open roof of the jeep, a frame to the vast canopy of stars lining the inky black ceiling of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so, so sorry this chapter took so long. its a little patchy and nonsensical and in all honesty im not completely happy with it but i dont think im ever going to be so i figured id just release it out into the world. this was my first time writing lexa and clarke so i hope i did them justice. im also hoping this fic is still interesting to you guys despite the wait!! i realise that i never disclosed any ages but they're all early to mid twenties. and emori was of course diligently looking after the frogs while murphy was gone. probably with some help from raven across the hall. what a duo. ALSO !!!!!!! this entire mishmash little fic is named after a line from on your own by blur so listen to it because its really great and i LOVE IT


	5. gold card soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This is ....disgustingly late but I've been super, super super busy lately and if I'm honest, I sort of forgot about this fic completely. (I'm sorry!) 
> 
> [TRIGGER WARNING: The conversation about rape takes place at the end of this chapter, and it's the last mention of it in this fic. Tt starts at "There's a lull in the music..." and ends with "Bellamy's heart feels like it's breaking." Just in case you need to skip it.] 
> 
> Sorry if this chapter is riddled with mistakes. I'll do a quick read over tomorrow but if there's anything major don't be afraid to leave a comment about it.
> 
> \+ If you're still checking up on this fic after that mega long hiatus: I love you.

Murphy wakes up the next morning with a crick in his neck and a surge of productivity that he hasn’t felt in a while. Infinite, happy possibilities swirl in his head as he squints at his arm and keys the faded purple numbers there into Emori’s ancient house phone.  
The line rings once, twice and then he hears Clarke’s warm voice rumble through the handset. “Hello?” Murphy can hear the note of sleep in her voice, and he cradles the phone against his ear; the plastic growing warm in his hands. “Hey Clarke, it’s Murphy. From last night?”  
She laughs. “You say that like I know a lot of Murphy’s. God, it sounds like you’re talking to me through a thunderstorm.”  
Murphy grimaces. “My phone’s busted, and I’ve been forced to use this crusty house phone.”  
“When’s it from, the eighteen hundreds?”  
“I’m pretty sure it’s been passed down through Emori’s family like a dusty treasured heirloom.”  
Clarke laughs, a sound that bubbles up and through the phone, making Murphy smile. She sighs happily. “So what’s up?”  
“Uh, not that much actually. I was wondering if I could speak to Bellamy? You know, if he’s still around.”  
He hears a shuffle of feet and the sound of a door opening. “Sure, yeah! He’s still sleeping, hold on.” There’s a thud, and a noise of protest from the other end of the room. “We partied a little too hard last night, if you know what I mean.”  
Murphy laughs lowly, the broad leaves of Emori’s towering Areca palm brushing the tips of his ears from his perch on the sofa. He banishes the thought of a tipsy Bellamy, all soft smiles and flushed cheeks.

Clarke’s voice resonates over the line again, farther away as though she’d held the phone away from her. “Bell! It’s your boyfriend, get up!”  
Murphy’s stomach somersaults before there’s a rush of air and a muffled, “shut up, Clarke.”  
“Um, hello! Hi. Sorry about that,” Bellamy says all in one breath, and Murphy can hear the smile in his voice when he says his next words. “So how are you? Uh- sleep well?”  
Murphy beams, and he’s thankful they’re talking on the phone so Bellamy can’t see the blush creeping up his neck. “I’m good. Slept alright,” he runs a hand through his hair. “Do you want to come to the pet store with me? I’m finally going to adopt my bearded son.” He screws up his nose, backtracking. “Or daughter! Or non binary animal child. I think I’d be cool either way.”  
Bellamy laughs, sounding delighted. “I’d love to! Do you want me to come by later?”  
“Sure. Emori can text you the address."  
“Alright cool.” There’s a beat of silence. “See you then I guess! Bye, love y- Uh.” Bellamy makes an odd, choked sound which he covers with a cough. “Sorry um. Force of uh, habit. Bye.”  
Murphy stifles a laugh. “Bye Bellamy.”  
He stares at Clarke’s inked frog, winking at him from the crook of his elbow as the line disconnects, and his heart soars in his chest.

Emori emerges some time later with sleep mussed hair and a mug in her hands.  
“Who were you on the phone to?” She joins Murphy, crosslegged on the bay window seat overlooking their grubby street, buildings cramped alongside each other, cars turning to blurs and flashes of colour along rain slicked tarmac.Emori’s socked feet brush Murphy’s knees as he flips through a book he’s already read. He toys with one of the dogeared pages. “Just Bellamy.”  
She smiles, leaning her head against the window. “That’s nice. How was yesterday?”  
Murphy recounts the evening in fervent detail, gushing about Clarke and Lexa and almost everything Bellamy said to him. “Clarke and Lexa are great. Like really great. If I had the chance to live in an alternate universe where they were my moms, I’d have the best time ever.”  
Emori laughs, hands cupped around her mug. Murphy can smell her green tea, fresh and delicate; hints of flora and sweet chestnut, a smell he often associates with Emori, and it feels a lot like home.

***

Bellamy runs his hands through his hair for the thousandth time, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. “I’m so embarrassed.”  
Clarke laughs throatily until Lexa elbows her sharply. “I’m sure it’s fine. Murphy doesn’t seem like the type of person to be offended by an accidental declaration of love.”  
Bellamy groans in exasperation. “I made it weird! It’s gonna be so weird now!”  
“Bell, this is a guy who wears cork hats and owns four frogs. I don’t think he minds that you said you loved him by accident.”  
Bellamy mumbles something, the sound muffled by the squishy blue pillow his face is currently smushed into. His legs hang over the side of the bed and Clarke kicks his heel, which is slipping out of its sock. "Get up and get ready for your date before I kick your ass."

**

Murphy shuffles on the spot, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Adjusting his now-slippery hood, he resolutely tucks his hands into his armpits, determined not to let the steady drizzle of rain phase him. Despite the fact that it's steadily making its way into his way-too-worn-down-for-rainy-weather combat boots.  
He sees Bellamy round the corner, ebony curls plastered to his forehead under a pink hoodie, leather jacket slung over the top. He catches dark flashes of tanned skin through gaping rips in Bellamy's dark jeans, sees Bellamy shove his hands deeper into his pockets.  
Murphy calls to him and he squints through the rain, raising a hand in reply.  
"Ripped jeans? Bellamy, you're basically asking for hypothermia."  
Bellamy grins at him, a raindrop sliding down his freckled nose. Murphy catalogues the way his pointed canine teeth are especially prominent when he smiles and the way that his eyes scrunch at the corners, rain water clinging to his eyelashes.  
"It's all in the name of fashion. Although I think you've definitely won again." He reaches his hand towards Murphy's yellow rain poncho, before realising what he's doing and letting it hang loosely by his side. Murphy frowns, blinking rapidly before turning and gesturing for him to follow.  
"So Monty, the pet store guy, held this dragon for me for a while. I think he's a couple years old already."  
Bellamy lopes along beside him, heavy footfall softened by splashes of rain. "How long do they live?"  
Murphy hums in thought, swinging his arms by his sides. "Five to eight years, but they can live up to fourteen if you take care of them well enough."  
Bellamy nods as Murphy pushes through the door to the pet store, painted a dark green. A bell rings distantly as they shuffle through, and some sort of plant hanging from a glass orb smacks Bellamy in the face as he enters. He lets out a relatively undignified yelp.  
Murphy whips around, frowning up at the offending plant. "Y'okay?"  
"I'm fine." Bellamy nods, pressing a thumb to his smarting eye. A hand tentatively brushes his jaw and his eyes fly open, his own hand jerking away from his face.  
Murphy's staring at his left eye with intense concentration, fingers splayed across Bellamy's angular cheekbones. The rain on the window casts fragmented and swirling shadows across Murphy's face as he peers at him, cornflower blue eyes iridescent in the dim light of the store. Bellamy swallows, feeling heat pool in his stomach and spread to his fingers like hot electricity crackling under his skin.  
Murphy's fingers are cold and soft, shaking slightly as they explore the side of Bellamy's face. He swipes his thumb over Bellamy's eyebrow once, twice. "All good?" he mutters.  
Bellamy's eyes flick to Murphy's mouth. He clears his throat, which is suddenly very dry. "Yeah. Yes. All good."  
Murphy nods, and is about to say something else before he's cut off by a call from further into the store. "Frogboy? Is that you?"  
Murphy turns his head, hood slipping down to reveal even messier hair than Bellamy had seen the day before; several loose interlocking braids shoved into a bun, soft chestnut strands slipping out of the hair tie. He resists the urge to reach out and touch.  
Murphy's hand is no longer resting on his cheekbone, and he feels its absence keenly; finding himself staring at Murphy's milky knuckles tucked into the pocket of his mustard yellow rain poncho, steadily dripping and seeping into the scratchy looking dark blue carpet at their feet.  
"Monty boy! Be over in a sec," Murphy calls. He looks back at Bellamy, flushed from the tip of his nose down to the hollow of his throat. His eyebrows are drawn together into a frown, teeth worrying his bottom lip. "Hey uh, sorry. That was weird."  
Bellamy shakes his head minutely. "Not that weird." He scrunches his nose, looking to the ceiling, an eyebrow raised in mock thought, "you've been weirder."  
Murphy snorts.

They weave through glass displays of various reptiles; glassy eyes tracking their movements, the lazy flicking of tongues, scales shimmering under incandescent bulbs. The store is darker the further they get, and the space between shelves gets gradually more narrow. A rich, earthy scent fills the humid air and Bellamy dodges several more overhanging plants, stopping to steady one that had started precariously swinging and untangle his feet from what could only be reptile leashes. He suppresses a smile.  
Murphy navigates his way through the store with ease, twisting his hips out of the way of lower terrariums and fishtanks and turning smoothly to slide through two stacked aisles of cardboard boxes.

Bellamy tries to pull his gaze away from Murphy's retreating form and shuffles through the leashes at his feet before bringing a purple one with him; toying with the coarse material as he makes his way to the back of the store, significantly less gracefully than Murphy. He hears the wet plinking sound of water in terrariums, the soft whoosh of tiny frog waterfalls; all magnified within the silent store.  
He sees him talking to a guy at the counter, who's currently holding a small friend in his arms. Bellamy sidles up to Murphy and offers him the reptile leash. Murphy gasps, eyes darting up to meet his. He holds the leash up with reverence. "Bellamy," he says, eyes still locked on the leash. "This is a once in a lifetime find."  
The guy at the counter rolls his eyes, almond skin glowing in the light of a huge lava lamp to his left. "We actually have four crates of those in the back."  
"Shh Green bean, you're ruining my moment," Murphy says, now twisting the leash left and right, supposedly to admire it from all possible angles.  
"I'm Monty Green."  
Bellamy's attention is drawn to the reptile first, then up to the person holding it. "Oh hi. Bellamy." He extends his hand, but realises that Monty's own hands are occupied. He settles on stroking the bearded dragon's scaly head. It peers up at him curiously, amber eyes wide.  
Murphy puts the leash into a cardboard box on the desk, filled with various other supplies. "You know Monts, you should really come over for dinner sometime." He makes grabby hands for the bearded dragon which Monty hands over smoothly, its orange head bobbing in the air.  
Everything is magnified in the store; hazy and dreamlike under the canopy of suspended vines and overhead plants. Bellamy watches Monty prop his chin up with his hand; hears the sound of the worn elbow of his red jacket hitting the table softly. "Sure. Does Emori really cook vegan or were you just saying that so I'd come over and see the legendary frog room?" Monty runs a hand through his thick black hair, peering expectantly at both the man in front of him and his bearded dragon.  
Murphy snorts, tucking his finger under his new child's chin and smiling benevolently as the bearded dragon tilts it's scaly head up in content. "Monty boy, she is vegan. It just so happens that both of your dietary choices suit my 'get Monty to visit and admire my beautiful frog room' masterplan."  
Monty smiles at Bellamy, cheek squished under his palm. "Good luck dealing with Frogboy and his merry band of men, because they really are a handful."  
Bellamy chuckles while Murphy huffs in mock-indignation, holding the bearded dragon closer to his chest. "By 'a handful' he means 'wonderful company'," he says to Bellamy in a conspiring stage whisper.

**

An hour later, armed with two milkshakes, a crate of supplies and a bearded dragon; Bellamy and Murphy slink into the apartment with wind-pink cheeks and goofy smiles, leaving a trail of watery footprints behind them.  
Murphy rids himself of his rain poncho, revealing a red and orange striped turtleneck that Bellamy can’t decide if he likes or not. He flops onto the sofa, cradling the bearded dragon to his chest as he toes off his shoes. They fall to the floor with a squelch and he winces. “Probably need to throw those out.”  
Bellamy lingers near the sofa awkwardly, the cardboard box slipping from his numb-fingered grasp as he tries to keep a hold on it and both the milkshakes. “So do you have a name for him?”  
Murphy looks up at him in disbelief, loose strands of damp hair falling over his forehead. “Are you kidding? I’ve known what to call him for months.”  
Bellamy sinks to the floor opposite Murphy, rifling through the box. He hums in question, inspecting a handwritten note in small, neat block capitals detailing everything bearded dragons can and can’t eat. There’s a pink post-it note on the back that reads: **FROGBOY** **, A REMINDER. JUST PRETEND LIKE YOU DIDN’T ALREADY KNOW ALL THIS.**  
“I’m gonna name him Bowie.”  
Bellamy smiles. "Continuing the theme?" He looks up to see Murphy attempting to kiss the bearded dragon’s head. His smile turns into a grin as he watches Bowie wriggle out of Murphy’s hands, spiky tangerine scales bright under the lights of the apartment. “It suits him, strangely.”  
Murphy shrugs as Bowie latches onto his foot and attempts to bite his toes through his patterned socks. “Figures. He’s a strange little bearded dude.”

Emori returns from work and is instantly enamoured with Bowie. She holds him in her hands like he’s a tiny spiny saint, declaring that she loves him repeatedly. She and Murphy launch into an off-key rendition of Rebel Rebel and Bellamy bops around in the background, spinning Emori and Bowie under his arm as Murphy attempts to sing the lyrics and the sound of an electric guitar simultaneously.  
Later, Murphy and Bellamy become a large entity of mixed shades of pink as they attempt to locate the arm of Murphy’s snuggie, Bellamy’s hands on his shoulders, turning him this way and that as Murphy’s hand punches out sporadically under the fleece. “Bell it’s lost. I don’t know how but I lost an entire sleeve of my snuggle.”  
“Murphy, it’s called a snuggie.”  
He huffs a strand of hair away from his face and it catapults into the air before landing in the exact same spot in front of his forehead. “Bellamy. I think I know the name of my own fleece thi-“  
Emori exclaims in delight. “He bit my finger! I’m officially adopting Bowie as my spiky son.”  
Murphy pouts over Bellamy’s head. “I thought I was your spiky son.”  
Emori shrugs, holding Bowie to her chest as one might protect a small and defenceless infant. “You’ve been replaced.”  
Murphy gasps at her in mock-horror, free hand over his heart as Bellamy makes a noise of triumph. He pulls the material away from Murphy’s side, reaching into a previously unseen dent and miraculously pulling out a sleeve.  
Murphy laughs as his hand pops through the bubblegum pink sleeve. “He has been found! The snuggle sleeve finally returns from the war!” He cries, Emori laughing in the background over Bellamy’s protests of “Its a snuggie! Emori please tell him it’s called a snuggie.”  
Murphy sticks his tongue out. “You’ve said snuggie too much now, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore.”

Murphy and Bowie head to the frog room (“It has to be renamed,” Murphy had told them. “We can now call it the A/R room. That stands for amphibians forward-slash reptile room.”) to set up his habitat. Emori cooks vegan pho soup with Bellamy’s assistance, and he stands in his socks in the tiny kitchen, chopping garlic and ginger and humming along to songs on the radio as Emori flits around, skilfully sautéing mushrooms and tofu.  
“D’you eat spicy food?” She asks, gesturing for him to pass the soy sauce.  
“I do.” He wipes his hands on a dish towel, handing the small yellow bottle to her. “My mom used to make spicy food a lot for us when we were young.”  
“Us?” The oil hisses as it hits the pan, the smell and atmosphere of the warm, steamy kitchen feeling infinitely familiar to Bellamy.  
“Yeah,” he runs a hand across the back of his neck awkwardly. “It was just my mom, my half-sister and I growing up. She didn’t like spicy food all that much though. I think she was a little too white for it.”  
Emori smiles. “Ah, the person of colour’s ancient struggle. Serving spicy food to white people.”  
He laughs, stirring the cup of vegetable broth she hands him.  
“Murphy is the worst person with spicy food. He just can’t eat it and honestly, I think it’s genetic.” She steps in front of him and reaches for the garlic, pawing through a cabinet, with a small smile playing on her lips as she talks about him. “That boy’s so white he’s practically translucent.” She sighs, opening a tiny bag of star anise. “I love Murphy with all my heart, so if you’re having spicy food just don’t like, breathe too close in his direction. He’ll start crying or something.”

They eat their pho soup on the couch, Murphy and Bellamy squished together on one side and Emori sprawled across the other, feet in Murphy’s lap. A foreign film blares in the background, the TV casting flickering multi-coloured lights across their faces. Bellamy finds himself glancing across at Murphy's face a little too often; the way neon pink and oceanic blue wash over the angles and contours of his face. When he gets up to turn the volume up and glances back at him, the image of a leafy green forest projects itself onto the side of his face, the hollow of his throat, the dip of his clavicle. He hopes frantically that Murphy doesn't notice, promising himself after every stolen glance that he'll stop looking, stop making things weird. Bellamy finds that he can't stop looking; mapping out the moles scattered across Murphy's neck, the lopsided quirk of his lips and the way his hair falls into his eyes when he tilts his head down. The gravelly sound of Murphy's voice startles him and he focuses his attention back on his food. “Bowie’s asleep in his new home. I think the guys are really interested in him.”  
Emori looks up from scrolling through her phone, free hand on her soup bowl to steady it as it balances precariously on her stomach. “Do you think they can talk to each other?”  
Murphy hums around his chopsticks, chewing hurriedly to answer the question. “Yeah definitely.”  
“How would that work if they’re different species?” Bellamy says, rooting around in his bowl for any leftover mushrooms.  
“Let me educate you about the animal kingdom Bell,” Murphy starts, raising a hand in the semi darkness.

Before he can begin Emori gasps and sits up, squishy couch cushions readjusting themselves behind her as she moves. "Raven across the hall is having a party tonight!" She waves her phone in the air frantically, socked feet tapping up and down on Murphy's legs. "We have to go."  
Murphy rolls his eyes and tips his head back so that his head hangs over the back of the couch. Bellamy shifts his eyes away from the milky column of his throat. "Emori are you serious? You're really going to drag me to this party because you have a crush on Raven?"  
"You have a crush on Raven?" Bellamy repeats dumbly.  
Emori sighs, pushing Murphy's knee away with her foot. "It's not even a big deal. She's just really funny. And she has nice hands and a nice voice."  
Murphy tilts his head towards Bellamy, raising an eyebrow as if to say, "see what I have to deal with?" Bellamy has a wild moment of thinking he could fall into Murphy's eyes because they're the colour of the ocean; roiling indigos and ceruleans changing as the light does. He blinks rapidly, flushing and flicking his eyes over to Emori, who's still talking.  
"- and she smells good all the time? Like I feel like I could talk to her forever because she's super intelligent you know? And she's so hot, I won't even lie. Oh my g-" Her eyes widen. "I really do have a crush on her."  
Murphy laughs, stretching his arms up and over his head. The sound echoes around in Bellamy's head. "Bellamy, would you like to come to this party with us? That'll probably be really awkward and weird?"  
Bellamy smiles into his empty bowl. "Sure Murphy."

**

Raven greets them at the door, flinging it open before flinging her arms around Emori. "I haven't seen you in forever!" She announces, and Emori laughs in surprise. She glances over Emori appraisingly, a soft smile on her lips as she tucks a strand of Emori's hair behind her ear. Raven turns to Murphy and Bellamy, dark ponytail swishing behind her. "It's kind of packed inside, but it's a good time," she says, arm still draped around Emori's waist. She points at Bellamy. "And you must be the wonderful Bellamy. I've heard quite a bit about you from Murphy, and his cr-"  
Murphy waves his hands around in front of Raven. "Okay, okay that's enough! Thank you Raven!" The soft mango colored button up shirt he dug out of his closet for this party stretches taut across his back as he waltzes through the threshold, motioning for Bellamy to follow. For some reason, Murphy had suspenders in his closet too, and the whole ensemble has Bellamy suitably distracted. He smiles sheepishly at the brunettes intwined at his left. Raven pulls back from mumbling something in Emori's ear, who's slightly flushed, pressing a hand to her cheek and raising her eyebrows in Bellamy's direction.

"I just go where he tells me," he says, shrugging a shoulder before drifting in the direction Murphy went. "See you guys later!"   
He spots him by a narrow table, shuffling through various bottles of alcohol. "Bell, do you drink beer?"  
Bellamy nods and he hands him a cup full of the murky liquid. "Wait why, do you not drink?" He's nearly shouting over the music that fills the apartment, but holds himself back from leaning closer to the boy beside him. Rule one of not making things weird, he mentally reminds himself, is respecting personal space.  
"Nope! Haven't in a long time." Murphy produces a bottle of soda from the far corner of the table before pouring it sloppily into two cups doubled up.

They push through the crowded apartment; a funhouse version of Emori's with its structure exactly the same but mirrored. Bellamy stumbles into a coffee table, accidentally crushing his red solo cup on one side, and Murphy grabs his free hand, pulling him in between conversations; brushing past people's backs and arms, the feeling of cotton and denim sliding past vaguely uncomfortable. The journey is punctuated by apologies from Bellamy; who manages to step on at least three people's feet.  
Murphy leads him to a window and drops his hand in order to push it open and throw his leg over the frame. Bellamy's eyes widen in alarm. "Murph? What are you doing?"  
Murphy frowns down at him. "Oh right! Sorry." He takes the cup from him before ducking his head and disappearing outside.  
Bellamy scrambles through the window, the rips in his jeans catching on the side and ripping even more. "Jesus Christ Murphy! I think this apartment is trying to kill me." His feet land on the textured steel floor of an outside fire escape and he spots Murphy smiling at him, leaning against the railing and holding his cup towards him, its red plastic glinting in the waxy glow of far off streetlights. "Welcome, your majesty, to the finest location in which to hide from unwanted social interaction."  
They stand there smiling at each other for a minute that feels like it lasts for an hour, an upbeat song from the apartment drifting, muffled, through the air, its bass-line rumbling through their feet, hearts in their throats as the night air settles around their skin, a whisper of warmth under the twinkling sky.

Bellamy sits on the floor of the fire escape; back against the rough brick wall, sipping beer and tapping his boots softly in time to the music. Murphy's sprawled out beside him, propped up on his elbows, feet knocking haphazardly against his own in a battered pair of all black converse. He commandeered Bellamy's jacket about ten minutes ago and the worn leather material hangs off his slender frame, sleeves flopping past his hands. His chin is tilted towards the sky, blinking slowly up at the wide awning of stars above them. Bellamy finds himself staring at him again, allowing himself these precious seconds before he sees Murphy tilt his head in thought and he directs his attention to the stars also.  
"Do you know any constellations?"  
Bellamy pauses for a second. "Yeah."  
"Cool cool cool." He wiggles his right foot back and forth restlessly.  
There's a beat before he speaks again. "Can you show me any?"  
Bellamy leans forward and squints up at the night sky. "Yeah, hold on." He sets his cup to the side before shifting to lie beside Murphy, the fire escape clanking precariously beneath them. The boy beside him stills as Bellamy points, trailing his finger in a small arc upwards before dipping low again. "Uh, that's Draco. Looks sort of like a dragon."  
Murphy's silent for a moment, before tracing where Bellamy's hand was a second ago. "Oh wow. I see him." Bellamy can hear the smile in his voice, and he feels something tug at his chest.  
"See the brightest star there? That's Gamma Draconis. The whole constellation represents Ladon, the dragon who guarded the gardens of the Hesperides in Greek mythology."  
Murphy's silent for a moment, before he turns his head to face Bellamy. "You know a lot about this stuff."  
Bellamy shrugs awkwardly against the steel floor beneath them. "Not really."  
Murphy wrinkles his nose as he smiles. "Yeah you do. Bellamy Blake, king of the galaxy." He doesn't remember when they started whispering, but he's fearful of breaking the strange spell that they seem to be under.  
"John Murphy, prince among frogs."  
Something in Murphy's eyes soften and Bellamy realises how close they are, almost sharing breath, inches from one another. The tug in his chest turns into a frantic pull as his gaze drifts towards Murphy's lips. His heart is hammering in his chest and it feels like there's a live wire humming just beneath his skin. He leans in infinitesimally, nose touching Murphy's, tipping his head forward so that their foreheads are pressed together. They really are sharing breath now, Bellamy panting softly across Murphy's parted mouth.  
There's a loud shriek followed by a laugh from inside the apartment and Murphy flinches, pushing himself up off the floor quickly. Bellamy stares dumbly at the empty space where he was a second ago. He blinks.

Murphy's on the other side of the fire escape, forearms resting on the thin black railing. Bellamy walks over to him, careful to be mindful of his personal space. Stupid, stupid, stupid.  
"I'm s-"  
Murphy waves a hand in dismissal. "Don't be. It's just- it's me. It isn't your fault."  
Bellamy frowns. "What? No really, it is my fault. I made it weird and I'm really sorry."  
Murphy presses the heel of his hands into his eyes, retreating into himself. He takes a shuddering breath and Bellamy panics a little. "Murphy?"  
He runs both hands through his hair before staring resolutely ahead and over the crooked skyline of buildings and apartment complexes, their windows lit up in whites and creamy yellows. "I'm gonna tell you something. It's not so you'll pity me, and it's certainly not so you'll laugh at me."  
Bellamy shakes his head, chest filling with dread. "I would never do that."  
Murphy's eyes flinch and he blinks rapidly, nodding once. "I'm telling you this because I trust you."  
Bellamy glances at Murphy's hands; at the starbursts of white blooming at his knuckles from gripping the railing tightly.  
"Before I moved here- when I was working at the zoo, there was a new manager for the amphibian and reptile house. She was kind of intimidating, but I really liked her. So a couple of weeks after she started working there she asked me out on a date."

There's a lull in the music from the apartment, and Bellamy hears someone shout for Raven. The sound of cars on the street float up to them for a moment, before a soft electronic beat resonates through the open window.  
"We had dinner and went to some crappy movie and then back to her apartment. She had a couple drinks and I had a couple more, and everything was fine for a while. I was kind of out of it I guess, and when she-" he pauses, taking a deep breath. "Started making advances towards me, I told her to stop and she- she just. Didn't."  
Bellamy feels bile rise in his throat.  
"It was so surreal, you know? I mean- the f-fucking _history channel_ was on in the background, and I was being-" Murphy's voice breaks and it takes Bellamy a moment to realise that he's crying. "I was being _violated_ on this girl's couch."  
His head is bent towards his chest, shoulders hunched over the railing. "I was being _raped_ and I couldn't do anything about it."  
Bellamy's heart feels like it's breaking.

Murphy stifles a sob, breath hitching as he says his next words. "I- I've talked about this so many times. To Emori, to the therapist and- twice in group therapy. But I always cry, and it's so stupid." He scrubs the back of his hand across his cheek, tears spilling over his palm and falling, glittering to the street below them.  
Bellamy opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again.  
"Murphy," he finally says. His throat is dry and it comes out raspy and low. "It's not stupid."  
Murphy breathes in through his nostrils and shakily out through his mouth. "No. It's not. But I just wish I didn't have to feel like this every time I talk about it."  
There's a beat of silence, and they both peer down at the cars winding past on the dark tarmac beneath them.  
"Bellamy."  
He turns his head look at Murphy. He's facing towards him, but his eyes are focused on a spot right above Bellamy's head. His face is flushed from crying, pink tear tracks marking his cheeks, but his eyes are dry.  
"It's probably the wrong time to say this, but I like you- a lot. You're a good person and I like spending time with you, and I'd really like it if we could-" He swallows. "Keep spending time together. But if you don't want to after this, I- I understand."

Bellamy searches for the right words to say. He places his hands gently on Murphy's shoulders, testing the boundaries. His eyes are steel and sapphire in the semi-darkness, and they dart to Bellamy's own eyes as he leans into the touch. "Murphy- this doesn't change how I feel about you. At all. And I'd like to keep spending time with you too."  
It isn't really enough, and Bellamy aches to say more; to say everything he's thought about Murphy, to tell him how much he likes being with him, and how much he thinks he's a wonderful person with weird clothes and a whole family of frogs- but he pulls him into a hug instead because it feels like the right thing to do.

Murphy stiffens for a moment before melting into it; feeling Bellamy's soft curls brush the side of his face, tentatively placing his hands on the wide plane of his back and feeling the muscles shift under the thin material of his hoodie as he moves closer, swaying them both on the edge of the fire escape. He feels something unfurl in his chest, a warmth spreading through him; into the tips of his fingers and the high points of his cheeks. He feels like he's filled with light, glowing and weightless, moonlight in his heart and stardust flowing through his veins.


End file.
